


Try This At Home

by samalander



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Terror, past clint/bobbi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets injected with a fear serum that makes all his nightmares appear before his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try This At Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enigma731](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/gifts).



> A very late birthday gift for enigma731.
> 
>  _I'm learning to fall._  
>  _I can't hardly breathe._  
>  _When I'm going down don't worry 'bout me._  
>  _Don't try this at home._  
>  _Pretend you don't see._ \- Boys Like Girls, "Learning to Fall"

Clint is used to change. He has never been a man-- or a boy-- who's gotten a lot of time to adjust to things. One minute he'd had a family, the next he was holding the hand of a policeman, the night wet and dark, as he was taken somewhere new. He was in the circus for the blink of an eye before he was out, homeless and broken. He was married in seven days, and divorced after he found out his wife was alive.

He lives his life like he's falling off a building, that's what Bobbi told him. That he lives in freefall, always waiting for the next impact to shake him loose.

And sometimes it's just impact after impact after impact.

Which might explain why, for example, he's not surprised when he wakes up on a pile of rubble and the sky above him is on fire. Last thing he remembers, he was standing on a building, and calling positions to his team. He figures maybe the building collapsed, maybe he's on the ground cause he can't stand on something that isn't there.

Which would also account for the fact that he feels like he's breathing fire. Broken ribs, he decides. Again.

Iron Man streaks across his vision, a blur of red and gold that's hardly visible against the fireworks of battle. Clint winces as one of their enemies, which look like some kind of robot-slash-cat-slash-ant monstrosities, scores a direct hit on Tony's leg, and he loses his trajectory, spinning in the air.

"Iron Man!" Clint calls, tapping his ear, and it takes him a moment to realize that his comm is out, when he can't hear his own voice echo across the channel.

And then it occurs to him that he actually can't hear anything.

He has a minute-- maybe 45 seconds-- to let that sink in before the goons have him surrounded, their guns drawn.

"Hi, boys," Clint smiles, winking at one of the people currently refraining from shooting him. "You all wanna play?"

They don't respond, but one of them grabs his arm and plunges something in-- it's a poison Clint thinks, and he watches the world fall in front of him, flame and brimstone and lightning, before he drifts back into a comforting blackness.

* * *

When Clint wakes again, he's in a bed. A soft one. For all of fifteen seconds, he's completely relaxed. And then the ceiling turns green, and explodes into a rain of insects. They coat his body, their legs itching over his skin. He's tied down, he thinks, he can't move.

Clint opens his mouth to scream, but he can't even tell if he's making noise.

* * *

The next time he awakes, there's a monster on his chest, making breathing difficult. It hurts. It really hurts, and Clint feels a tear roll down his cheek.

"Don't cry," the monster says, it's fingers soft against his face. "Clint, don't cry."

It doesn't even occur to him to wonder why he can hear it. Or how it stole his mother's voice.

* * *

The pain is still there when Clint struggles to the surface again, but there are no monsters and no bugs and for a moment, he actually feels safe. He hears footsteps and looks around, trying to find a weapon, anything at all to defend against the next horror.

"Hi," the horror says. He doesn't hear it, but it's wearing Natasha's face and he knows her lips. Which, it can't be good to see her. All the fears his mind can throw at him, all the things that could kill him, and Natasha is the thing most likely to hurt him.

Which is why he's not exactly surprised when the fear grips him and he feels the hot, shameful stream of urine soak his sheets as he cowers against his restraints.

She doesn't disappear, though, he doesn't fall back under like the other times. Instead she looks at the wet spot on his bed and calmly picks up the phone. He can't see her lips, but she only takes a moment before she replace the reciever and turns to face him.

He's afraid, still, and flinches back when she reaches to touch her. 

"You got a dose of fear serum," she says. Or so he thinks. It's not an exact science, lip reading, but he's good enough at it that he can guess. "From the guys we were fighting. The robot cat things were a distraction. They got Thor, too."

"You're not real," he says, a tear streaking down his face. "No, no, no." He shakes his head almost convulsively and it makes him feel young, like the child he could never afford to be. Suddenly he's afraid of the monsters under his bed instead of the ones in his living room.

Natasha doesn't say anything. She reaches for his hand but doesn't take it, reacting to his flinch like he's struck her.

"You're scared," she says, though he thinks it's probably more for her than for him. "Cause of the serum."

Clint doesn't say anything, just lies there and shakes, staring at her open eyed, waiting for the attack.

The nurse comes before Natasha can hurt him, though, and she has the good sense to chase out the most dangerous woman in the world before she sets about cleaning Clint up.

* * *

The fears come in waves, the monsters and the pain and the twisting surety that his father is there, behind him.

He watches planes fall from the sky and cars careen off the road. He watches Bobbi walk away from him, he sees the hate in Duquesne's eyes. He cries and screams and works his wrists bloody against the restraints. Nothing stops the panic. Even when a soothing calm permeates his veins, when his muscles seem lethargic and loose, he still feels the panic in his heart, still sees the things behind his eyelids.

* * *

Natasha comes again when the fear has subsided to an aching anxiety.

"Your hearing aids got damaged," she tells him. "They're making you another pair."

Clint doesn't trust his voice, doesn't feel like he can say anything to her that won't reek of fear and weakness.

They sit in silence for what Clint judges to be about fifteen minutes. He hasn't pissed himself again, so he's gonna call it a win.

"Is there water?" he asks, trying not to let the little voices tell him their slimy lies. She won't hurt him. She won't poison him. She's his partner.

"Yeah," she nods, picking up a cup from the bedside table.

He tracks her movements, each one precise and exacting. She notices, he knows. She always notices. There's a moment where he hesitates, when she holds the cup up to his lips.

She looks pained but she takes it back, taking a swallow herself before undoing one of his restraints, so he can drink himself.

"Thanks," he whispers, but he can't quite look at her, and she takes her leave shortly after.

* * *

They keep him until he can get through a day without a panic, without thinking that someone is trying to kill him or something is under his skin. It's about a week, they tell him, and every day he can feel the beat of his heart slowing, the hummingbird pace dropping back to normal, until he can sync his breath with the gentle thump of his blood and his concentration returns, his sniper-sense falling back into place. They say it took three days for Thor, with his Asgardian healing, to fall back to normal, so they think the week should see Clint clear to go home.

Clint lies in bed and he feels the thrum of the world, the subway under his feet, the beeping of the machines. He has his hearing aids again, can tell when he makes noise or when the nurses are coming down the hall with their squeaky shoes.

The only thing he doesn't feel is Natasha. He can't even seem to remember her voice. She's been gone since the day she offered him water. 

He doesn't blame her.

* * *

Steve helps him home, which is nice of him. Riding on the back of Captain America's motorcycle fulfills a few of Clint's boyhood fantasies, though he's pretty sure telling Steve that would be a mistake.

"Thanks, man," Clint says, climbing off the motorcycle when they pull up in front of his building in Bed-Stuy.

"You sure I can't help you up?"

"Nah," Clint shrugs, handing the helmet back to Steve and grabbing his bag from the back of the bike. "I'll be alright. I got some friends in the building."

"You call me, okay," Steve says, turning those blue, blue eyes on Clint. It's an order, he thinks, not an offer. Something your CO does because he's responsible for you, not because he cares. "If you need anything?"

"Yeah," Clint lies, and hurries into the building before Steve can issue any more commands for him to disobey.

* * *

It's not really surprising to Clint that things feel weird. New hearing aids, he thinks. They always fuck up his perception of things, always make rooms feel bigger or smaller or just weird.

But he wants to sleep in his own bed, wants to shower the hospital from his skin and take some time to himself. So he drops his bag by the door and plods up the stairs to his bedroom, one hand on his still sore ribs. The lump in his bed is surprising, though he wonders if it should be. The tangle of red hair on the pillow lets him know who it is, and he sighs and leans against the doorframe.

"Is this where you've been?" he asks, not even letting her pretend that she's asleep.

"Yes," she says, not turning over.

"How come?" he sighs.

Natasha rolls onto her back, looking him in the eyes for the first time in a week. "Cause I was hurting you," she says. 

Clint shakes his head. "The serum was hurting me," he says, feeling weak, suddenly, like the heaviness of the past few days is too much, like it's all on his shoulders. He sits, heavily, on the bed.

She sits up on her knees and moves behind him, slinging her arms over his shoulders and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"You're not okay," she says.

Clint laughs, though it's bitter. He voice still sounds off, he thinks, though if its the new aids or the anxiety is anyone's guess.

"I pissed myself," he breathes. "Cause I was scared of you."

Natasha kisses his cheek softly. "You still scared?"

"Of you?" he shakes his head. "Nah. Just all the eyes on me, all the-- all the lingerers, you know?"

"No," Natasha says. "But-- tell me."

He makes a soft noise of distress, unsure how to put into words what she wants to hear. Unable to tell her what it was like, to be trapped in those nightmares, to see the world like a funhouse mirror on acid. "Do you hate me?" he says instead. "I know I promised--"

"Clint," Natasha cuts across him, the sadness in her voice like a blow. "Never."

"I--" he stands, running this hands through his hair, which is long, he knows. Too long. "I keep thinking about-- I said I'd never been scared of you."

Natasha shakes her head and reaches for him, catching his hand, and pulling him towards her. His ribs sing in pain, but he sits again as she presses a kiss to his palm. "You've never been scared of me," she agrees. "Because you're insane. I'm scary. You should be scared of me."

"No," he breathes, but it's not what he's upset about, and they both know it.

"Lie down," she tells him, reaching to pull his shirt over his head.

He lets her strip him to the waist and maneuver him onto his stomach, making a soft noise of pain and relief as she moves to straddle his hips, her strong hands working into the stiff muscles of his back.

"You're allowed to be scared," she says, pressing beneath his shoulder blade, somehow avoiding putting any weight on his ribs, avoiding causing any more pain then she has to. "You're allowed to be weak, and human, and all the other things you are."

"I--" he breathes, his voice hitching. "I saw the guys who got me. Who injected me. And I couldn't--"

"You were hurt," she says. "A building collapsed under you."

"I watched Tony get hit," he says.

"Tony is fine," she tells him, rolling a knot under her palms. "And so is Thor, now, and Steve and Bruce. And me." Her voice sounds thin.

"I was useless," he whispers.

Natasha freezes, her body rigid, her muscles tense. "Never," she says.

"Yes," he insists, moving to turn over, but falling back as his ribs scream a protest. "Yes, I was. I was-- I _was_."

He can hear the hysteria in his voice, the panic and the fear that he's fought down. The scariest part wasn't the monsters, the pain, the nightmares. The scariest part is this. This comedown.

"You're not, though," she says. "And, you know," she bends to press a kiss to his shoulder before slipping off him so he can turn and face her. "You're the one who told me that I didn't have to be what I was. I could be what I was going to be."

"Sounds like something dumb I'd say," he grumbles, anger flaring hot in his stomach as she tosses the words at him.

"You're mad," Natasha says, catching his chin so he has to look at her. "Good. Be mad. Be mad and we'll get the fuckers who did this. Be mad. Mad has direction."

Clint nods, because she's right. She's right, and he has to get up and be an Avenger, aching body and bruised soul and anxious heart. He has to aim and fire and bounce back. Because it's not about him, this time. It's actually not.

"Are there any leads?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. "Steve has them."

"Tomorrow," he says, the idea of calling Steve too much. If there was ever a person who would find a way to pull a U-turn on the Brooklyn bridge, find a way to jump that barrier, it would be Steve. And Clint couldn't be responsible for that.

"I need a shower," Clint says, suddenly anxious to get away from this conversation before it turns to the last quarter it has.

"Okay," Natasha nods. She runs a hand through her hair, which is unusual for her. She never shows that kind of weakness.

Clint sits up, clutching his aching ribs. "I hope you never see me piss myself again," he says, his eyes closed. "I am-- I'm sorry."

Natasha just smiles and kisses his shoulder one more time.

"That really, really didn't bother me," she says, and he's surprised to find she's sincere, no sign of her normal lies in her voice.

He meets her eyes for a second, the question unasked between them.

"I--" she closes her eyes. "I'm never going to be angry for things you can't control, Clint. I know you. I know who you are, and who you want to be. Better than I know myself."

He feels the tears pricking the corners of his eyes, emotion heavy in his throat.

"And I've done things. You know I have. Things I wish I could take back. When I wasn't in control. So," she takes a deep breath. "If you're looking for someone to tell you it's your fault, or that you should feel embarrassed or ashamed, I don't know. Ask Maria. Or Fury. But not me."

"Not you," he says, tears finally breaking free and starting to fall down his cheeks. "Because you know me."

"Yeah," she says, wrapping her arms around him and cradling him to her chest. "I know you, and I care about you and you never blamed me."

He doesn't know what to say, the sadness in his chest feels heavy and oppressive, like something that will crush him if he lets it. He opens his mouth to make a snappy comeback, to say something sarcastic so he can pretend he isn't upset, that he isn't still seeing monsters inside his eyes.

"Be mad," she says. "Be upset. Take a shower, take a run. But, you get a choice. And you know what?" she kisses him softly, her lips lingering against his forehead. "You've never chosen to be scared of me. So I'm going to go ahead and know it was the serum, and you can figure that out when you're ready."

Clint laughs, though it hurts, the desperate sound bubbling over his lips and he holds onto her. She's right. She's right and those might be the best two words in the English language.

"You're right," he says, so he can taste them, can feel their weight. "But the piss thing--"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "So you pissed yourself in fear. Please. There are a lot worse reasons to piss yourself."

"Like what?" he asks, sniffing as he smiles at her, the tears drying on his cheeks. 

"Like-- like you set yourself on fire and you have to put it out," she says. "Or you're bored and you wanna see what it's like. Or you're camping and you misjudged the wind."

Clint laughs painfully, a little bit of light in his heart as she talks.

"Like you believe that thing about jellyfish stings. Or you get really old and your prostate gets huge and you're just grossly incontinent."

"Cheery!" he says, but his cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. "You think you'll still be with me when I'm incontinent."

"No," she says, kissing him. "I'll leave you for Steve."

Clint laughs again, touching her cheek softly and meeting her eyes. "Tell me one more time," he says.

"I love you," she tells him, and he can't stop smiling. She's said without words it a thousand times since he walked in, but he still gets a thrill when the words come out, when she lets down that last little wall and shows him her one soft spot.

"I love you," he says, and for once, it doesn't feel like an impact.


End file.
